


over fen and field

by sourboy (jonashootme)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dark Harry, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Magical Realism, Ritual Sacrifice, experimental writing style, immorality and immortality, sorry Ginny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonashootme/pseuds/sourboy
Summary: They have been running for what feels like a long time.somewhat set in dark-ages Britain(un-edited, raw and gritty one-shot)





	over fen and field

* * *

 

They have been running for what feels like a long time, _‘Over fen and field’_.

 

He laughs at the morbid thoughts, a joyous sounds incongruous to the chase behind, and his companion laughs with him. She does not _know_ but can discern some sentiment behind his thought that encourages her own smile.

They are young and careless, and they are _running_.

From expectations and the certainty of adulthood, their lives determined since the cradle. She will be married off to some nobody wayman or lordling of noble if comparably insignificant blood, create some children, force herself to love this unbaked loaf of a man. Die unhappy while surrounded by her bland if somewhat caring family.

It is not like that now. Not with _him_.

They could travel to the shores of their land, explore the world. He makes everything impossible suddenly so there and _attainable_.

He is imperfectly perfect and golden and glowing. From the moment she saw him mounted on his grey horse bedside their Lord. There has a mischievous light that shines from the depths of his eyes and smile just on the corner of his lips, like he has invited you, and only you, in on his private joke. You can laugh _with_ him.

She looks at him now and they catch each other’s eye, his grin infectious. Out of breath and sweating from the exertion of this chase it is dazzling.

She knows he will never allow them to be caught.

At night they sleep beneath the stars, cradled in the roots of a great elm tree. The forest they now run through is silver in the moonlight, the only warmth from the others body, curled together in the damp leaves and moss. It is a lucky thing that it’s summer.

When the sun dawns bright and early, the mist lifts, it is green and the air is so fresh. They stand together on the banks of a stream between the rushes and stones, eating mushrooms and dandelions before cupping the sweet water in their hands and drinking their fill.

He says ‘We are like the wild deer,’ and she cannot agree more. It is freeing. Soon their morning wash turns to play and the water is like strings of diamonds in his curling, black hair. The dawn sun’s rays hit the water. He says ‘Your hair is like the flames of the midsummer bonfires,’ and she has not blushed more.

Soon, too soon, there is the sound of horse’s hooves in the far off distance, echoing down the valley. Sounding closer than is honest.

But they are near the coast, and she assured once more that there is nothing to fear, they will make it away from here. From their life that is a cage.

In the wild, together, on the run, they are whoever they want to be.

It is not long later they must hide in the hollowed out shell of a fallen tree. It is covered in lichen and trooping funnel, moist and smelling of earthy decay. His eyes, like fresh pond water, are wide with fear and mirth. They cover the mouths to disguise their breathless laughter, eyes wide as the Trackers walk past their hiding spot. The Tracker leaves not long later, and they collapse together in peals of silent laughter.

She whispers breathlessly, ‘that was terrifying’. He says, ‘I know. That’s what makes it fun.’

In the moment after it is so quiet, he looks into her eyes and then his gaze flickers down. She certainly cannot stop the blush now. Her breath picks up, heart thundering as they lean in.To kiss the Lord’s heir! It is her certain end.

Their lips touch in a chaste kiss and she feels something spark, like electricity jumping from him to her. He huffs a small laugh, ‘Your ears are red,’ and pinches one.

He catches her eye, so clear and unblinking that she cannot look away. A promise is made, ‘For as long as we are hunted, I will look after you,’ he says. Capturing her pale hands in his, warm and tanned. She believes him for no one can doubt words said with such earnest?

When it is certain their pursuers have moved on they continue their journey to the coast. Hopefully a boat will be waiting, or one found, to take them to new shores. A freedom only ever imagined. Within reach.

 _So close now._ She thinks.

 

Soon the air begins to taste of brine, the cry of gulls sometimes heard when the wind blows from the north. It carries with it something more, something intangible. This something reminds the girl of when _he_ first spoke to _her_.

It was unbelievable, and it was secret.

Her terrifying Lord’s heir, taken in as a babe not yet too big for a cradle. Who could believe the man like marble and ice would ever think to extend this generosity, saving a child’s life. It was unprecedented. Even as the boy grew he did not appear remarkable in any way, the people muttered. He is not tall or strong, they gossiped. It did not help that their Lord allowed no one but himself and the most faithful servants of the fort to talk with him, or even be near him. Yet at the same time he was not treated especially well.

‘Perhaps he is poorly?’ was the next thought. ‘But then why keep him as heir?’ was the reply. And to that there was no answer. A mystery that could not be solved, particularly when those who worked for their Lord were so tight lipped.

She looks at him now. This enigmatic boy beside her. He is still somewhat of a mystery, but one she likes to think she is lose to solving.

There is a power in his slight frame, one that tastes like life. As light and free as air yet sure and immovable as a mountain. It is incongruous and it is perfect.

His power is diametrically opposite that of their Lord. She thinks he is like death, like shadows, and as certain and violent as a storm. 

How could such a man raise this boy? There is salt in his hair and dirt on his skin, a grin so wide and true one cannot help but smile back. He says, ‘So close now,’ and she says, ‘We are,’ meaning something else. He gives her a close lipped smile.

It is mysterious and she loves him for it.

She loves him...

That night, as they lie on coarse sand beach, she confesses this truth. Her secret revealed without fear. He accepts it, and it seems perfect.

When they fall asleep this last night in their home country there is sand in their hair and stuck to their sweaty skin. She sleeps deep and dreams gentle, welcoming dreams. Like the embrace her body is in, so her consciousness is held on soft arm and thoughts. Imagination was nothing compared to this.

 

* * *

 

Waking is harsh and painful. It is still night and yet there are horses screams and the shouts of men. She is terrified, pulled so violently from a slumber as delicate as a fairy’s wing.

Her arms are bound with fraying rope behind her back that chafe and break her soft freckled skin. Eventually she feels her blood drip into her clenched fists. It is a tacky and disgusting feeling. She screams for him. Cries out through tears of confusion and horror. ‘Harry!’ she cries, ‘Harry where are you! You must save me!’. 

‘I must not do a thing,’ calls a voice. From amongst the seeming chaos of riders - _the Tracker’s_ her mind supplies - he steps. Her Harry. There is something different about him now.

Oh, he still looks the same; same wild black hair, same dirt smudged skin, same confident walk. She cannot immediately identify the difference.

‘Harry, please, you promised!’ She calls. She calls over and over but he merely shakes his head. That same small and mysterious smile fixed upon his red lips. They are red like blood, and the smile looks nowhere near kind.

‘I promised no such thing,’ he is so calm and composed. The same as always, but it is incongruous in this terrifying and deadly setting.

She is confused because he did, ‘You did,’ she claims. Tears still streaming down her face. What is going on? She see’s a large, dark figure, mounted on a great and glossy black steed not far behind her Harry. It seems familiar. But she is distracted by the response. And it is gut wrenching.

_“For as long as we are hunted I will look after you”_

‘And now we are no longer hunted,’ he says, as if that is all that need be said. As if she is not terrified, tied up and injured by strange men. She has no clue, not the smallest inkling to what is going on. Just what is happening to her? What has happened to _him_?

He must see some of this in the expression upon her face for he says, ‘Because I do like you, somewhat, I will explain,’ and that wrenches something deep within her. She searches his face in fear and some welling frustration, borne of this entire _irrational_ ordeal. As they each contemplate the other silently a man, not the one holding her up by her bound arms, approaches. He presses a dagger to her throat and a black stone basin is held just below her clavicle.

‘You have some power in your blood,’ he does not explain with pleasure in his tone, ‘And so you have some use to us, you see.’

He see’s that she does not _see_. He huffs an impatient sigh.

‘When a woman of power gives her love wholeheartedly, and of free will. When that love is accepted. It creates great power, which lasts potently a day, and then less so, but steadily, for the rest of her life. It can be sacrificed, and taken, and used.’

She shakes her head at this. It is a nonsensical statement to her. It sounds like witchcraft. But she knows there is no such thing.

She looks back up at him, and remembers the power she felt from him. And then remembers that it is their Lord who proclaimed there was no such thing.

And then she remembers the figure behind the boy, the one on horseback.

It had been so still before, an unmoving silhouette in the background. He, and it is surely a he, kicks his horse forward, to stand in line with Harry.

She knows him now. It is her Lord.

She had thought there was no love between the boy and their Lord. It was why they ran away in the first place.

Their Lord lowers one gloves hand to rest on the crown of Harry’s head, fingers curled in the wild locks. Harry looks up with reverence, and fondness, etched deep and true into every line of his face and body.

Tears well in her eyes as the pieces click into place. She recalls his words from scant minutes ago; “You have some use to us.”

Her life was a game, and her love the prize. And they won.

Harry is looking at her again, but her mind has drifted far. Never before has she felt such deep, consuming betrayal. And she never will again. She knows this now.

‘Your death will not be in vain, Ginny. I promise you that. Our lord will imbibe of your power, and your legacy will live as long as He lives.’

Now she knows what is different about him. The knife presses hard against her throat, her blood beads along its sharp length.

 

‘Fear not. It will be as quick and easy as falling asleep.’

 

His eyes are as cold and pale as glacial ice. The last thing she will ever see as her life drains from her body, to be used to keep their Lord, the monster, immortal. Unforgiving as they stare back into her own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I pooped this out today and I don't know how well it will read. Another experiment in writing style so I can hopefully work out what I'm comfortable with.
> 
> There is one strange allusion to Lord of the Rings (ie. the title and opening lines) that really doesn't match the tone of the fic except for the whole 'dying' part, considering the Death Song to Boromir is actually quite beautiful and what Harry does isn't really (except maybe to him and Voldemort).
> 
> Well... I hoped you enjoyed what is in reality a break from writing a longer piece. good luck @myself with that.
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
